


Operatic

by flirtygaybrit



Category: Aquaman (2018), DC Extended Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 22:11:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16900761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: Of all the things that Orm had worn over the past weeks—the golden regalia of a king, a sleek silver helmet designed to awe and intimidate in battle, a lifelong prison sentence for attempted genocide—the most fitting, in Arthur’s opinion, were the restraints.





	Operatic

**Author's Note:**

> Point number one: I haven’t seen the film, so this fic cannot/will not contain spoilers beyond speculation. Point number two: Patrick Wilson described Orm as “operatic”, and I genuinely couldn’t resist making it literal. Point number three: I desperately needed chain bondage.

Of all the things that Orm had worn over the past weeks—the golden regalia of a king, a sleek silver helmet designed to awe and intimidate in battle, a lifelong prison sentence for attempted genocide—the most fitting, in Arthur’s opinion, were the restraints.

Shackles, to be precise. Arthur had become well-acquainted with them upon arriving in Atlantis. They were attached to the floor via heavy chain links that would hold even a thrashing whale fast, with thick, intricate metal cuffs designed to encircle the forearms and a heavier collar that would secure a prisoner by his throat. When Arthur had been brought before his half-brother, the acting king of Atlantis, the chains had been held taut by members of the royal Atlantean guard as a means of restricting his movement. There were no guards to wrangle Orm into submission and he floated comfortably at mid-range, close enough to the silver-white floor to keep the chains slack, but Arthur still had a clear view of him from the elevated throne.

And his voice. He could hear Orm’s voice most clearly, and that was perhaps the biggest issue Arthur had with these manacles: they didn’t cover Orm’s mouth.

“I heard the sonorous cry of her thunder all ‘round me… the tide swelled and roared and made landfall as she crashed ‘pon the shore…”

He was singing, for the first time since Arthur had been introduced to him, but it was hardly some jovial Atlantean tavern song that now reverberated through the vast room that Orm had once ruled the kingdom from. Orm had said a great many things to Arthur in the past weeks, had bellowed at him with such rage and resentment and genuine distress that Arthur was beginning to recognize the way anger shook his voice. And that’s what he was now: angry, a prisoner with no hope of escape or forgiveness, and—if Arthur knew anything about him—an unmistakable hint of sorrow.

“She was a tempest… and though the rain fin’ly cleared, the sea thrummed with war…”

It was hard to tell if he was improvising. Atlantean culture was rich with tales and song and music, based on what Arthur had managed to gather, and in this retelling Orm seemed so self-assured, as if warning Arthur with melodious certainty that a storm would come one day seeking vengeance… but Orm was an orator, too, and not simply a prophet. He spoke eloquently, vehemently, inciteful in his speeches and poetic in his declarations. He’d persuaded numerous armies to follow him in a bid to eradicate the surface that had poisoned his home. He’d even persuaded Arthur that he was worth saving, worth keeping as a prisoner when it was time for justice to be served.

But he was also Arthur’s family, and it had been so long since Arthur had wanted something so desperately to believe in. 

He pushed himself upright and, forgetting himself and his environment, attempted to step down from the throne; on the surface, gravity would have pulled his boot to the stairs with an echoing clang, but underwater his buoyancy (and, likely, the lack of actual boots on his feet) did him no such favour. He paused briefly on the floating staircase, gazing at Orm as he transitioned into a haunting series of syllables that were yet unpronounceable to Arthur, then propelled himself forward and descended through the water until he floated level with his brother.

And though Orm didn’t look up, he stopped singing.

“How long are you gonna keep this up?”

“When the novelty of displaying me like a new trophy has worn off…” Orm raised his head and the gentle motion of the water tugged his hair briefly forward before it settled back into place. “Unless you prefer to prolong this humiliation.”

“What, you think _this_ is humiliating?” Arthur circled around him, drifting leisurely behind Orm’s back to examine the chains where they attached to the cuffs. “You think I should do something less humiliating, like calling in a private militia to hold the chains? Pull you back like a dog when you get a little too worked up?”

“Don’t be belligerent,” Orm growled. Arthur continued to drift around him, and this time Orm followed him with an unblinking stare, swiveling his head like a particularly outraged owl without taking his eyes off of Arthur’s. “Is this not enough for you?”

On his second pass behind Orm, Arthur gripped the chain attached to his brother’s collar and gave it a sharp tug. Orm grunted, turned his head to bare his teeth, and—surprisingly enough, said nothing. He was waiting for Arthur’s opinion, then. And he’d get it.

“You know, you’ve always been a real asshole.”

“I’ve always been fair,” Orm countered. He was still following Arthur’s lazy path, his expression unwavering, solemn. “But this”—he lifted an arm until the chain attached to it grew taut, then pulled until he was obviously straining against the links before relenting with a frustrated exhale—“this will not be the penance you seek.”

He was wrong about that. This was precisely what Arthur sought—the vengeful part of Arthur, the part that wished to see this man suffer for what he’d done, to see him humbled before the true king. But the rest of Arthur, the greater part of him, wasn’t vengeful. The greater part of Arthur had no desire to see his Orm begging for mercy, or to humiliate him before the citizens he’d once ruled and riled into a frenzy against the citizens among whom Arthur had spent most of his life.

Honestly, the greater part of Arthur just wanted Orm to apologize. Just once would do. And all he had to do was mean it.

He knelt, rested his forehead against Orm’s, and closed his eyes. 

“Nobody said being a king was gonna be this hard, you know?”

Orm’s chain rattled gently, but he didn’t pull away or grab for Arthur’s throat. Instead, he cleared his own and said quietly, “I know.”

Arthur exhaled. “They talk about… proving yourself worthy. Being a leader. No-one said ‘hey, one day you might need to fight your family, prepare yourself for that.’ No-one said I was gonna have to… do this.”

Orm was quiet for a moment. Arthur couldn’t tell whether it was out of respect for his newfound struggle, or if he simply didn’t know how to comfort someone. “You don’t have to.”

Suddenly Arthur laughed and lifted his head, and as Orm glanced up at him he slid his fingers through the loose strands of Orm’s hair and gently tugged his head back to expose the thick collar wrapped around his throat.

“No, I don’t. There’s no satisfaction in this, in—whatever this is supposed to be.” He ran his fingers over the thick metal loop at the front of the collar and hooked his finger through it, tilting it up so that Orm was forced to look up at him properly. “Seriously, you get off on this? It’s medieval. Nobody needs to be put in this thing.”

Orm’s brow furrowed faintly as the hand that was buried in his hair slid down the side of his head. He was surprisingly easy to maneuver with the collar; while the chain restricted any further forward motion, Arthur could tilt Orm’s head back and forth to inspect him from whatever angle he pleased. He waited for Orm to complain, to bark another insult at him, to request to be set free, but Orm simply watched him with that burning, unblinking stare.

“Well,” he said at last, thumbing over the smooth edge of the collar where it met Orm’s skin. His throat was slightly warmer than the metal, though Arthur couldn’t tell whether the heartbeat he felt beneath his thumb was Orm’s or his own. He kept his thumb in place in case it was both. “At least it keeps you satisfied. It’s not doing shit for me.”

He straightened up, and with a single powerful stroke of his arms began to make his way back to the throne. The vengeful part of him was more or less satisfied with Orm’s apparent submission, even if the rest of him still hoped that his brother would express something in the realm of regret. But he was out of patience for now. He’d have the nearest guard remove the manacles and take Orm back to his new holding chamber, and he wouldn’t have to worry about—

“I think it is.”

Arthur was hardly past the throne, and he couldn’t stop himself from stopping and turning on his heel. He was surprised to find that in the mere seconds it had taken him to move this far, Orm had descended on his knees to the pristine white floor of the chamber, far enough from the chains’ attachment point that the manacles around his arms and neck were now actively preventing him from moving.

“Excuse me?”

“This is what you wanted from me,” Orm called back. He straightened up as far as the chains would allow and made a show of straining against his restraints with both arms, then glanced around as if indicating an invisible audience. “You may believe that you’ve clouded the waters enough to hide the truth of your desire, but you only needed to fool them.”

That was a strange word, _desire_. He’d never heard Orm say it before. He knew, realistically, that Orm had desires too: power, progress… vengeance. A relationship with the only family he had left. But Orm’s desires had clashed spectacularly with his, and there was no reason that they should align now. Either Orm was attempting to lower his guard or attempting to bargain with him, and the latter certainly didn’t fit with what he knew about his brother.

Arthur shrugged helplessly and gazed down at Orm. “So… what, suddenly you know me better than everyone else?”

“You are my brother,” Orm replied. “Who should know you better?”

Without warning, Arthur dropped onto the floor. The impact of his feet made a dull thud that echoed throughout the throne room, and he took his time walking up to Orm, who now knelt where Arthur had once been chained. If it was Orm’s intention to force Arthur to see what he’d seen during their first meeting here...

“You think you know me?”

“Place your hand around my throat,” Orm said, voice lowered so that his suggestion reverberated in the water between them. “And tell me if I’m wrong.”

He looked smug, if a man in shackles could be in any way smug about his situation. It infuriated Arthur, this smugness and this thinly veiled attempt to pacify him and every other goddamn thing about Orm’s demeanor, and suddenly Arthur found himself doing precisely as Orm had requested: he gripped Orm by the jaw, squeezing his fingers on each side as he leaned in and narrowed his eyes and said, “Is this what you want?”

Orm’s gaze flicked over the length of Arthur’s arm, and just as Orm took a breath and began to open his mouth, Arthur adjusted his grip to comfortably press his thumb against Orm’s lips. “No, wait, I got a better idea. If I let you go—”

And then his thumb passed Orm’s lips. Just the tip of it, barely enough for Orm’s teeth to present any sort of imminent threat, but Arthur could feel the soft, velvety surface of Orm’s tongue against the pad of his thumb, and as Orm’s eyes began to slide shut, he suckled gently and Arthur was hit with a revelation so jarring that it literally made him light-headed.

“What the fuck,” Arthur said succinctly, then pressed his thumb further into Orm’s mouth.

Maybe he should have paid closer attention when Orm first mentioned desire.

It was only a few seconds later when Orm finally turned his head and let Arthur’s thumb slip from between his lips, but it was possibly the only time in Arthur’s life that a few seconds had unexpectedly bridged the gap between genuine frustration and—well, there was no way around it, was there?—sexual frustration. Orm, on the other hand, seemed perfectly fine. His mouth curled into a small smile, his eyes crinkling warmly in the corners, and once again Arthur felt an indescribable frustration welling up deep in his chest. It felt like Orm was constantly shaking the foundations of his person, and yet he knew that if tectonic plates were a blood relation, even they couldn’t possibly rattle Arthur the way Orm had in the past weeks. 

“Don’t fucking say a word,” Arthur warned, now acutely aware of the way his hand rested against Orm’s jaw. “Or I’m gonna have to find another one of these to put over your mouth.”

He rapped a knuckle against the metal collar with his free hand for emphasis and was careful to maintain his grip on Orm’s face as he drew himself up to his full height. Orm, obviously unintimidated by Arthur’s attempt at regaining some control over the situation, simply hummed and turned his face against Arthur’s hand, brushing his nose against his fingers like an affectionate cat. The water was warm against his skin where Orm exhaled, and it was with uncharacteristic gentleness that Orm brushed his lips over Arthur’s palm.

“I wouldn’t wish to impede your access to my mouth,” he murmured, and that was all Arthur needed to hear.

When he’d received his first suit of armour from Mera, back before the world had nearly gone to shit because of some other egomaniacal bastard, he hadn’t quite understood the need for the form-fitting clothing and silky material that Atlanteans garbed themselves in, and he’d rarely spent enough time disrobing in the ocean to bother creating a water-friendly wardrobe for himself; now, however, he found himself struggling with denim that was soaked through and a belt that was nearly impossible to unfasten with just one hand, and Orm was watching him with barely concealed amusement as he gave up and snapped the belt buckle off entirely.

“I would offer to help,” Orm said, then lifted both hands to indicate the manacles that still encircled his forearms. “Forgive me.”

Arthur pointedly ignored him. It was easier to open his jeans and shove his underwear down when he wasn’t thinking about what it would be like to have his brother do it instead, until he was suddenly faced with the realization that he was standing in front of Orm with his cock in his hand in the middle of the vacant (and painfully well-lit) Atlantean throne room.

“Maybe you _were_ meant to be a leader,” Orm breathed. He’d been grinning up at Arthur during those wasted seconds of fumbling, but his eyes lit up with keen interest as his gaze traveled down Arthur’s front and settled on his groin. Arthur expected him to continue, but instead Orm attempted to lean forward and was immediately halted by the collar’s chain pulling taut. “But my abilities appear to be… limited.”

That was the only hint Arthur needed. Orm’s ploy was obvious now; even on his knees with manacles holding him fast, he had managed to place Arthur in an uncomfortably vulnerable position. If any member of the Atlantean guard or some unsuspecting citizen were to enter the throne room, Arthur’s intent would be unmistakable even from a distance, and Orm could easily twist the narrative to suit any purpose.

For all the good these shackles have done, Arthur might as well be the one in them.

“Arthur.”

Well, there was no sense in prolonging this. Orm was watching him intently, gaze flitting back and forth between Arthur’s face and the hand wrapped around the base of his cock. A faint flush had started to colour his cheeks, and as Arthur cupped his cheek with his free hand Orm leaned into it with a sigh of contentment, then opened his mouth to allow the head of Arthur’s cock past his lips.

“Holy shit,” Arthur breathed. Orm hummed gently in reply and began to suck with pressure so gentle it was almost demure. Tectonic plates, Arthur thought, then shivered and slid his fingers through Orm’s hair. “You really are crazy.”

Crazy and inhumanly patient. The chains wouldn’t allow him to move forward, and it was only when Arthur rocked his hips forward that Orm made a sound of approval and rubbed his tongue against Arthur’s cock without complaint. The chains gave him the ability to ease back, at least, and he did on occasion, pulling away from Arthur’s cock long enough to catch his breath. It surprised Arthur how natural this seemed to be for him, but there were many things about Orm that surprised him, and he was certain that there were many more things he had yet to learn. 

“You share my blood,” Orm said coyly, pulling away once more to mouth at the underside of Arthur’s cock. “If I’m crazy, what are you?” 

Sucking his cock was the exact opposite of what he would expect someone expressing that particular sentiment to do, but Arthur was so desperately aroused that he could only shudder and drag his nails against Orm’s scalp. It was no longer a matter of Orm getting under his skin; he could feel the soft heat of Orm’s tongue as it slid against his cock, and each time he rocked his hips forward he could feel the pressure of Orm’s mouth and throat closing around him as he swallowed. And the sounds he made—as if it wasn’t enough for Orm to swallow his cock, he was enjoying it, too, muffling appreciative groans each time Arthur rolled his hips forward, straining against the chains in his attempts to take more of Arthur’s cock into his mouth. If Orm had a point to make, he was definitely making it.

With a grunt, Arthur gripped Orm’s hair and rocked his hips forward, suddenly thankful for the fact that there was a floor beneath his feet. This was his first time fucking in the ocean (among a slew of other surprising firsts) and while Orm didn’t seem to mind being on his knees, Arthur couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to fuck him properly, suspended in the water with Orm’s legs around his waist, or in the comfort of a bed with Orm astride his hips with his hands on Arthur’s chest, or—

A moan rumbled up from the depths of Arthur’s chest, and he curled over Orm with a shudder. He said Orm’s name, or maybe tried to and failed in the way that words often fail in the heat of the moment. It was hard to tell. 

And then, to Arthur’s surprise, it was over. His breathing was laboured, and Orm was still swallowing around him, and all he could think of was how nice it would feel to sag against his brother and let Orm support him for just a moment.

“Okay,” he mumbled to himself, petting absently at Orm’s hair as it waved in the gentle current. “Yeah. Fuck. Okay.” He didn’t feel quite ready to stand, and it took him a second to remember that he didn’t have to. Still somewhat dazed, he took a step back and began to tuck himself away while Orm, whose cheeks and mouth were flushed a spectacular shade of red, took a few steadying breaths of his own.

Arthur stared at him for a moment, then cleared his throat and glanced around the throne room. “So, did you, uh…”

Orm looked fairly disheveled, now that Arthur’s cognitive processes had more or less caught up. He pushed himself upright and took a few steps backward, giving the chains on his arms enough slack to roll his shoulders with a faint grimace. “No, I didn’t.”

And it was evident now that he hadn’t found his release; though Orm looked as ravished as Arthur felt, the swell of his erection was visible through the material of his suit, and there was a strained quality to his voice that hadn’t been present even after his operatic performance. Thirty minutes ago that would have alarmed Arthur, but after spending some time with his cock in Orm’s mouth, he felt that he was beginning to understand more and more what drove him.

He glanced back toward the throne. It was easy to picture himself sitting on it, watching Orm squirm and pant and beg for release in the vast empty space of the throne room. Arthur would be his only audience, and Orm was… persuasive, to say the least. It would be a performance fit for a king.

Suddenly, Arthur found himself laughing. He felt lighter than usual, pleasantly buoyant in the water. It was probably the orgasm, but he wanted to think it had something to do with the prospect of… Orm. Of them.

“Well,” Arthur said, “guess what we’re doing next?”


End file.
